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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261023">And Raise a Child</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingstar/pseuds/dancingstar'>dancingstar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>It Takes a Village verse [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, zuko is such a teenager</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:14:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingstar/pseuds/dancingstar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fire Nation hasn't been home to him for three years. The gold-encrusted halls are as foreign to him as peace. </p>
<p>In which Zuko tries to settle, and more or less succeeds.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iroh &amp; Zuko (Avatar)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>It Takes a Village verse [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>660</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And Raise a Child</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>    He wakes with relative ease. Head pressed into an abundance of pillows, arms and legs buoyed by feathery cushion and airy silk; he sinks. There’s no cushion soft nor sturdy enough keeping him from the burden of consciousness. The palace is grand; it is beautiful, embellished, ornate– and it is so thoroughly horrible.</p>
<p>    Time feels like the thinnest curtain, barely a reddish haze cast over the worst of his years. Azula is still pressing shocks of flame to his skin, tripping him when he walks. Servants cower when he stomps away, smoke sloughing off his skin. And father–</p>
<p>    Father is taller than he remembers. Crueler and sharper. The heat from his fingers is brighter. Breaths are harder to control. Even the fogginess of memory displays him with trembling reverence.</p>
<p>    He hates it here. He hates it more than words can honor. It’s more than being terrified; fear has been a part of his life no matter the place. Fear is an old friend. Instead, it’s the rough and burning separation of <em>before</em> and <em>after</em>. The part of him that belonged under these gilded ceilings died years ago. Died brutally and completely.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>    A sharp knock at the door.</p>
<p>           </p>
<p>    He rises, “Come in.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>    A woman, vaguely recognizable in her servant’s garb, bows briefly before beginning, “Your Majesty…”</p>
<p>    “<em>No</em>,” he interrupts, waving his hand, “please. Just call me Zuko.”</p>
<p>    She nods her head, as she has every morning.</p>
<p>    “Of course, My Lord. Your first meeting is with the Minister of Education in thirty minutes. Might I call in the attendants to get you dressed?”</p>
<p>    It’s all he can do not to scowl.</p>
<p>    “No,” he says, again, “thank you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>    “Lord Zuko, you <em>must</em> understand the burden this proposal brings to our schools. A sudden change in curriculum is not only a strain on our nation’s fine educators but one on the students as well…”</p>
<p>    They’re sat in a smaller conference room, no less adorned than any other. The table is evenly stained and polished, glossy where papers skid silently. And the high-backed chairs hold sturdy; fine make and finer embroidery.</p>
<p>    “So, you suggest we keep lying to them?” he drones, adding a “<em>sir</em>” as an afterthought.</p>
<p>    Minister Tanaki pulls back in his seat, lips pressed in an unhappy shape, corners curved in disdain. His thin mustache betrays no unsteadiness with hands clasped primly in his lap. Distantly, he recalls a noble flaring her nose at his approach with tea. A scold to Hyun, none too quietly. <em>It’s unseemly for a proper establishment.</em></p>
<p>    “All due respect, Your Majesty–”</p>
<p>    He suppresses a twitch in his right eye.</p>
<p>    “–but this is not a laughing matter. You imply our children are taught falsehoods, and thus disrespect the <em>entire</em> body of educators bringing up our nation’s future.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>    Disrespect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>    “So what?”</p>
<p>    It falls out before he can stop it. He’s not even sure he wanted to.</p>
<p>    Somehow, he keeps his gaze level, pushing it forward and outward, bracing his hands on the cold wood. Thus, it’s a remote fascination that swallows him, as he watches Tanaki go pale. Even further he drifts, a ruddy flush paints over his cheekbones, a compliment to the deepness of his black glare.  </p>
<p>    “Our children think the Air Nomads had an army. Pacifists. Having an army.”</p>
<p>    “My <em>Lord</em>,” he sputters, like he hasn’t been spinning pure bullshit for the past hour and a half.</p>
<p>    “Our nation committed <em>genocide</em>.”</p>
<p>    “Now, listen–”</p>
<p>    “<em>Twice</em> we did it, Minister Tanaki,” he retorts. “Don’t interrupt me–”</p>
<p>    Faintly, he registers the stench of smoke. Fumes that clogged air temples alongside burnt bodies, charred bones. Cries of lost culture and a tiny girl waiting for her mother to wake up. It’s revolting. The cognitive dissonance of these people. Resolute ignorance and blatant hypocrisy. A blank stare over mass graves, but eyes sharp with glee at gold.</p>
<p>    “Would you rather, <em>sir</em>, that we pretend that nothing happened? Nothing changed?”</p>
<p>    The Minister is now standing.</p>
<p>    “Would you rather I look the <em>Avatar</em> in the eye and say his people deserved to die?”</p>
<p>    At some point his voice had turned to a yell. It was too loud in his ears. He could hear it through the buzzing. Like a roaring dragon spitting through an earthquake. His throat was burning. His throat–. Oh, <em>Spirits</em>. Oh, <em>Spirits damn it.</em></p>
<p>    Teeth clicking, top lip tremoring, he sits stiffly into his chair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>    The door closes behind Tanaki with a <em>clunk</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>           </p>
<p> </p>
<p>    Uncle finds him hours later, wafting a jasmine cloud with the gentle press of a cup to his hands. The tray rattles as he pours another, a warp setting it uneasy on the floor.</p>
<p>    “What’s on your mind, Nephew?”</p>
<p>    His fingers feel swollen with heat, like he’d run too fast and too far. He sets down his tea, pressing his fingertips to the wood instead.</p>
<p>    “It’s too hot,” he says, moving to trace patterns along the grain, nail catching in the grooves.</p>
<p>    Chuckling, he replies, “It will cool down in a moment. Patience, my boy.”</p>
<p>    Zuko shakes his head, the wobble of the already-loose fire emblem making him grimace. He pulls his fists into his lap. It’s only so long before he sinks that fucking thing into a wall.</p>
<p>    “No, it’s not– I meant– Not the tea,” he says, rubbing a thumb over the cuff of his robe. “The weather. Uh, the sun.”</p>
<p>    Uncle hums, quiet enough that Zuko draws his gaze upward, meeting another. His amber eyes are familiar, both the look and the feeling settling straight through his breastbone.</p>
<p>    “I suspect you are quite used to cooler temperatures, now,” he says, “You will grow used to it soon.”</p>
<p>           </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>    Everyone has already left. He doesn’t know why that startled him so much; it’s not as if they could stay. Or even wanted to. Sokka is back home, rebuilding. Katara and Aang are off Spirits-know-where, rebuilding. Suki is on Kyoshi Island, <em>also</em> rebuilding. He suspects that’s just the state of the world right now.</p>
<p>    Towns and cities alike have fallen to the demands of war. There’s really no person left untouched, and healing is so foreign, one only can call it that. Rebuilding. No, healing is reserved for the war-torn and battle-scarred. Salves and remedies and tinctures for violence.  </p>
<p>    Sleepless nights and quick tempers. Closed throats and frozen tongues. Even natural wariness, vigilance, protection against the illusion of safety. These are the fault of a cracked foundation. There’s no healing to be done.</p>
<p>    So Zuko can only nod as polite-minded nobles tip their glasses and words of peace. <em>Oh, how wonderful it is that we can begin to </em>heal<em> as a nation.</em> Smiles bland and stiff. He’s been around enough nobles to know ass-kissing when he sees it. Besides, the rich aren’t going to flounder. They never have. They’ll get money from peacetime just as they’d gotten riches from wartime.</p>
<p>    “Much looking forward to an era where I don’t have to worry for my life,” one chortles, as if he’d ever seen fighting first-hand.</p>
<p>    Sighing, he stands from the dais, chair muffled on lush carpet.</p>
<p>    A hand appears, attached to one of his guards… uh, Ming. He thinks.</p>
<p>    “My Lord, I must ask you to remain at your seat.”</p>
<p>    Zuko turns, eyebrow raised.</p>
<p>    “Why?”</p>
<p>    He knows he’s being difficult. He <em>knows</em> that the leader remains above the festivities, available, approachable, able to surveil his subjects, or whatever. But frankly, he doesn’t want to.</p>
<p>    “My Lord,” Ming repeats, “the ceremonial aspect of this gathering is crucial to establishing your–”</p>
<p>    “I’m getting a drink.”</p>
<p>    If he’s making it through the evening, he’s not going to do it sober.</p>
<p>    His guard takes a step further into his way.</p>
<p>    “Sir, <em>My Lord</em>,” Zuko nearly rolls his eyes at Ming’s placations, “I can have someone bring a cup of tea, if you’d like.”</p>
<p>    He snorts, “No.”</p>
<p>    No one wanting to lay a hand on <em>royalty</em>, he slips his way past Ming, his other guards, and a few brave servants whose offers of aid are a <em>touch</em> too condescending.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>    Eyes are burning wounds into the side of his head, lines down his back, through the layers of silk with ease. Conversation falls to a din of murmurs, laughter cut off. Whispers built like arrows bury into his side. His stomach roils, and the tightness in his throat twists his lip to a scowl.</p>
<p>    He ignores it. It’s better to ignore it.</p>
<p>           </p>
<p> </p>
<p>    The table plated with soju is vacated by the time he arrives. Only one of the kitchen staff, Xu-Li, remains in place.</p>
<p>    She smiles, “A drink, Your Majesty?”</p>
<p>    “Please,” he sighs.</p>
<p>           </p>
<p>    He watches as she pours, dark hair falling around her face. Her expression is pleasant, youthful, even if the creases around her eyes say differently. Steady hands and easy posture. Straight but not stiff.</p>
<p>    “Have you worked here long?”</p>
<p>    Smile still in place, though smaller, she looks at him. Her dark eyes twinkle.</p>
<p>    “A few months,” she says, setting down the soju.</p>
<p>    Zuko nods, taking the drink.</p>
<p>    It figures that she’s new. The older servants talk to his nose, filling their speech with humility, self-depreciation, and, most sickeningly, reverence. They’re aged beyond their years, a tremble in their joints, and watch Zuko as if he’s a rabid pygmy-puma every time he moves. He refrains from asking her the question he wants to ask, but it’s pervasive anyway.</p>
<p>    “Do you…” he starts, then swallows. A crackle of loud conversation bursts behind him. The crowd has receded, according to his furtive glances over the shoulder. Giving them a wide berth. He turns back, meeting her placid expression once again.</p>
<p>    “Do you like it?”</p>
<p>    Xu-Li bows her head, cheeks pink, “Would you allow me to be frank, My Lord?”</p>
<p>    His heart leaps, “Of course, please.”</p>
<p>    She laughs, quietly. It’s not mocking, just gentle, but it makes him flush all the same.</p>
<p>    “No employer has ever asked me if I was enjoying my work. Work isn’t supposed to be fun.”</p>
<p>    He can’t help but snort into his cup. The brutality of customer service is not quickly forgotten. And he can’t imagine that those in a tea shop are less demanding than in a palace.</p>
<p>    “I cannot say it is fun, but I do not hate it. Otherwise, I’d be elsewhere.”</p>
<p>    He pauses, returning the pungent liquor to his mouth.</p>
<p>    Finishing his sip, he asks, “Where would you go?”</p>
<p>    She hums, affecting a look of deep thought. Hand on chin, pursed lips, gaze skyward.</p>
<p>    “I quite like the courtyard,” Xu-Li concludes, “I’m sure I can learn a bit of gardening.”</p>
<p>    A smile twists his face. It feels too much like cracking a mask, fracturing clay caked to his skin.</p>
<p>    “Thank you, Xu-Li,” he says, bowing.</p>
<p>    “Anytime, My Lord.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>    It’s not definitive when he makes the decision; it’s been building for some time. If he’s being honest, it started when the Earth Kingdom vendor knelt close and told him he was safe.</p>
<p>    His dao are a comfortable weight on his back, donned in dark robes. The night is quiet; not even the cricket-toads chirp their song from the bushes below. Crescent moon high, air warm, he clasps the window shut behind him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>           </p>
<p>
  <em>Uncle, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I am sorry. I am well. As regent, you are acting Fire Lord until I return. I am sorry. I love you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>- Zuko</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
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